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Lord Rand. I will not vent, In vain complaints, the passion of my soul. Peace in this world I never can enjoy. These wounds the gratitude of Randolph gave. They speak aloud, and with the voice of fate Denounce my doom. I am resolved. I'll go Straight to the battle, where the man that makes Me turn aside, must threaten worse than death.— Thou, faithful to thy mistress, take this ring, Full warrant of my power. Let every rite With cost and pomp upon their funerals wait: For Randolph hopes he never shall return.

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EPILOGUE.

An epilogue I ask'd; but not one word
Our bard will write. He vows 'tis most absurd
With comic wit to contradict the strain
Of tragedy, and make your sorrows vain.
Sadly he says, that pity is the best,
The noblest passion of the human breast:
For when its sacred streams the heart o'erflow,
In gushes pleasure with the tide of woe;
And when its waves retire, like those of Nile,
They leave behind them such a golden soil,
That there the virtues without culture grow,
There the sweet blossoms of affection blow.
These were his words :—void of delusive art
I felt them; for he spoke them from his heart.
Nor will I now attempt, with witty folly,
To chase away celestial melancholy.

END OF VOLUME FIRST.

Edinburgh: Printed by James Ballantyne and Co.

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